According to Master's Wishes
by Aerial
Summary: A short tale of the life Dobby lived when he was a house elf at the Malfoy Manor


Disclaimer: *Sigh*  The characters still all belong to Rowling. . .

A/N: Time setting is between Harry Potter's first and second year at Hogwarts.

"Trays is needed up in Master's room!" a small voice rang out from the door to the kitchen.  The effect of these words on the workers in the room was amazing.  Many ears perked up at these words and busied their hands with ladling soup or rationing large helpings of bread and gravy onto silver bed trays.  The house elf that had shouted that request slid into the area and picked up a few culinary tools to stir a nearby pot of simmering stew.  

"Eeek!" squeaked a high voice.  "Away from the soup!  Away!"  The sound moved closer as the house elf scurried across the room, hands out held in horror.  Dobby looked up, yet continued to stir.  He sniffed, deeply inhaling the smell of the food.  "No!  No, you mustn't touch the food, Dobby!" another house elf piped in.  "You burns everything!"

Dobby was shoved lightly to the side by a female acquaintance as another grabbed the utensils from him and hurriedly nudged him out the door by a rather hard push on his shoulder.  He staggered out, rubbing his arm and securing a bundle of letters back into his tunic.  Then he ran, tagging behind four house-elves who had taken up the order he had called.  Up six flights of stairs they ran, pressing upon one another to reach the room before another masculine shout could fling orders to them.  But too late.

"My shoes need shining!  And where in Merlin's name is my breakfast?!"  The five house elves practically tumbled over each other in their rush, knocking the sugar dish off the tray.  Master rolled his eyes.  "Pathetic!"  He waved his hand carelessly at his servants, knocking the bedside lamp off, where it broke, leaving jagged pieces of stained glass on the plush carpet.  Two house elves stepped over the mess and gently set his meal on the bed covers.  He rolled his eyes.  "Will someone get me a new sugar dish already!  I can't drink my morning tea without it!  And I want my shoes shined now!"  The elves cowed and backed up in fear.  "You!" the man cried to his closest victim, just noticing the broken light fixture.  "Why did you break my lamp?"  The elf made no reply, but stood there instead, wringing his hands.  "It was an antique, I tell you!  An antique!  Why can't you fools be more careful?  My belongings deserve respect!"  The man flung his arms out again to emphasize his words.

By that time, other house elves had rushed about, and one stuck the shoe shining materials into Dobby's hands.  He stiffened with fear, not wanting to approach his Master.  Slowly, he crept over to the black work shoes and began to polish.  Over his shoulder, three elves labored on the floor, picked up the remains of the antique lamp.

Master's nose wrinkled with disgust as he sniffed the food.  Then, without tasting it, he complained, "Ugh!  This stew is horribly burnt!"  An elf nearby shot Dobby a look, and he looked down quickly, an embarrassed blush rising to his cheeks.  "And when did I ever say that potato stew was an appropriate morning meal?" the man continued.  "I specifically told you that I wanted mashed potatoes, not potato stew!

At last, it seemed, Dobby finished with the shoes and set them aside, pleased with his luck at not having been scolded yet.  But his luck ended as if his thoughts had jinxed them.  "You there!  I told you two minutes ago that I wanted the brown shoes shined today, not the black ones!"

Dobby cringed.  "Yes, sir.  Dobby will get right to it, sir."  He plucked a pair of brown shoes off the rack, trying to remember if Master Malfoy had ever said anything about brown shoes.  'No,' he decided.  'Master never said anything about any brown shoes.  But Dobby obeys.  Dobby always obeys.'  Again, he put down the newly cleaned shoes and backed up to stand against the wall alongside the other house elves, awaiting his next orders.

His master's gaze roamed the wall, lingering in turn over each elf.  Some were told to tie their tunic with more care; to others, he gave orders or complaints that usually included a string of words that Dobby cringed to hear spoken.  When he saw Dobby, annoyance flicked in his eyes.  "Bring me the shoes," Master ordered clearly.  Quickly, the house elf brought the pair of shoes to his master for inspection, and after correcting his mistakes and blunders, was told to exit the room.

"Don't forget!" the harsh voice called after him, "you owe me three punishments!"  Master then turned to pick up a diary nearby, examining it, and running his long fingers over the words 'T. M. Riddle,' smirking with excitement at the horrors this book would bring to Hogwarts in the coming school year.

Dobby nodded vigorously and ran out, tripping over his own feet, oblivious to the mocking laughter of the eleven-year-old, blond haired boy that leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom on his left until he was tripped by him.  Blinking, he stumbled backwards and tumbled down the stairs headfirst in his attempt to get away from Young Master.  And rubbing his sore head, Dobby trudged back to the kitchen, amid howls of laughter, to begin his punishments.


End file.
